That I Live and You Are Gone
by megSUPERFAN
Summary: Marius wakes up alive. This alone is confusing enough to him, but he can't possibly be the only one left alive... can he? Inspired by Empty Chairs at Empty Tables: "There's a grief that can't be spoken."


"I can hear them now... Oh, my friends, my friends, forgive me that I live, and you are gone..."

~_Empty Chairs at Empty Tables_

* * *

His world went dark- one bullet too many, and there was pain, and that was all he remembered.

No. One more thing, reaching from behind, catching him as he fell.

A hand.

_I am taken prisoner. I shall be shot._

Prisoner…

* * *

"_Prouvaire? Jean Prouvaire!"_

_No one stepped forward. No one answered._

"_Where is he?" A horrible pause, in which worried whispers were exchanged, and those at the barricade began looking._

_Wounded? No. Dead? No._

_Not yet._

"_Jehan!"_

_What was to be done?_

_There was a commotion from the other side._

_The shout._

_The shot._

_The silence._

* * *

He opened his eyes, and he heard the exclamation, but all that he knew was that there was blood; he felt warm, cold, _filthy_.

It took him days to realize where he was, but no one could say how he had gotten there.

No one, it seemed, could say anything. Marius didn't know how to ask. _How am I yet alive? What has happened?_

_Where are they? Do they live?_

The barricade had been taken, that much he knew. But had all perished?

Was Marius the only one left? Was there anyone?

Just one. Please. Anyone.

He thought first, of course, of Courfeyrac. He strove in his hurting mind to recall the last time he had seen his friend…

And a shiver chilled his whole being as he remembered he had seen Courfeyrac die.

* * *

_Just a moment among moments. Everyone, it seemed, was falling. There was no time to focus on details- just reload and fire._

_Just to his right, two bodies fell. One was a stranger to Marius, but the other he knew._

_Shot through where most of his essence resided- in his heart._

_There was no time._

* * *

The doctor said it was a miracle he'd survived. Everyone was thankful for it. No one considered for a moment that Marius hadn't _wanted _to survive.

Was there anyone left?

He couldn't be the only one.

He couldn't.

The names of those he knew, all the Friends of the A B C, crawled into his fever dreams, dragging with them the memories, the mocking assurance- _They're all dead. There's only you._

Laigle- no, no one called him that… what was the name? Bossuet.

* * *

_One arm hanging limp, struggling to hold his gun, out of bullets._

_Out of luck._

_Still smiling. Still laughing._

_That was the last Marius had seen of him._

_He hadn't noticed Bossuet's death so much as he had noticed his absence._

* * *

His head and his shoulder were healing, slowly, but he could not move beyond a few centimeters or the set collarbone would be loosened again. The cuts on his head were shallow. Some were scarring, all burned.

He thought of Cosette often, and he longed to see her, but visits were physically and socially impossible. Marius would have to wait. And the waiting hours were filled with the thoughts that filled his every waking moment- and most of his dreams.

He woke once to his head being supported by his grandfather, and for a single flash of time, he remembered Combeferre.

* * *

_Many brave fighters, grouped in the center of the barricade. So many gone. Combeferre's arms were wrapped around a body, yet they were empty._

_The poor man he'd tried to save had bled and died._

_Combeferre had been killed as he knelt._

_He hadn't merely lost his life; he had given it._

_For nothing?_

_No. Not for nothing._

_To be free._

* * *

The worst time was when Marius was alone, when he didn't have to put on the imitation that he was healing on the inside as well as the outside, when the dreams came upon him so roughly they brought tears.

The same question he'd asked when he had been told of his father's death came to the forefront again and again: _Why?_

* * *

_Before he entered the battle. Just before._

_There was shouting, there was fire. Marius had only been shaken hard enough to move when he saw his dearest friend and the small boy in danger of their lives._

_He'd only had two bullets, and anyway, it was too late._

_Bahorel was already dead._

* * *

Everyone avoided politics in his presence, but Marius heard things anyway.

Opinions.

He hated opinions. He hated politics.

For it, they'd died.

* * *

_A flag raised, and a flag fallen. Who would be the one to set it on high again?_

_None of the young volunteered. So the old man stepped forward._

_Marius knew him. He was poor; nothing to live for, but something to die for._

_Father Mabeuf lifted the banner and cried out in the name of the Revolution._

_A man raised, and a man fallen._

* * *

Sometimes Monsieur Fauchelevent came, never into the room while Marius was awake, but just outside. He seldom spoke, but he brought bandages and money for medicine.

Another mystery for Marius; was Cosette's father here because of her?

Again he yearned for her, again he received no satisfactory answers.

No answers for any of the questions that tormented him.

* * *

_Feuilly had always seemed big as possibility. No present too painful, no future too far. He was the person of the people, the citizen of France and of the world._

_He worked for so much more than most people ever saw._

_Feuilly died fighting, died as he believed the future would come._

_Quickly._

* * *

Marius passed his days in thought. _Who. What. Why._

He needed to remember them. Foolishly, he held on to the faint hope that he was not the sole survivor. His memories again proved him wrong.

* * *

_Marius hadn't seen Joly die, but he had seen the blood. He had seen the young man leaning painfully, crouched against the barricade's crumbling side._

_It wouldn't be long before the many wounds overcame him. Marius knew. Deep down, he knew._

_Joly had been injured too badly._

_He was dead._

* * *

It was a nightmare that reminded him of another young hero. Through the haziness of dream and the aching that came with healing, Marius heard a song, each verse punctuated by the report of a gun. He continued to hear it long after he'd awoken, and it haunted him.

* * *

_Foolish. The taunts. Such idiotic bravery._

_Only a child's heart could have done what that heart had decided to do._

_It amazed the whole barricade, that singing. Breathing had to be consciously remembered._

_For a few short minutes, every one of them had believed in Gavroche._

_And then it was over._

* * *

It set him to physically trembling sometimes. How many would never come back, how many would be forgotten.

Every one of them dead and gone.

Marius knew the National Guard would have killed the leader of the rebellion. There was no hope in his mind that Enjolras was yet alive.

He could wish, yes. He'd _been _wishing, but the words _too late_ came over and over.

* * *

_In the face of any wavering, Enjolras had been the one to stand. His voice implanted courage in all, and his courage implanted a voice in the people who needed one._

_He would stop at nothing. Enjolras had been the one to believe that even if the battle was lost, the revolution would prevail._

_Enjolras was faith, and he was freedom._

_And like all the others, he was gone._

* * *

It was weeks before Marius thought of Grantaire, and the hopeless _maybe _arose in him again, for he did not recall ever seeing the skeptic during the battle. Grantaire had made known his opinion of revolution; could it be he had not fought?

Marius actually asked his grandfather to send a message out.

Of course, no answer came. Little did Marius know.

* * *

_Grantaire had slept, and he had awoken._

_He'd been left to the side while they died around him, and when the battle was ended, he had risen._

_To die by the side of the leader, as valiant as any second in command._

_To wake up, only to sleep again forever._

* * *

His friends were dead, yes, but Marius was mistaken in thinking he had no one. For the first time in his life, he knew the love of his grandfather, and to his delight, he had now the permitted love of Cosette.

She had come at long last, and his heart that had rent in sorrow felt the pangs of joy.

Remorse filled him when he remembered that he had wanted to leave life forever. How could he ever have wanted to leave his angel the way all his friends had left him?

Time flew on buzzing wings, and his wounds were nearly healed, and he was to be married.

One night the image of a ragged girl stole into his mind. He wasn't prepared to think of her yet- the memory hurt.

* * *

_He saw her lying, Thenardier's daughter, broken and bleeding._

_He held her, and she was happy. She was dying, and she was happy._

_It was Marius's fault._

_She had loved him, and she had died because of it._

_He tried to tell himself he couldn't have known._

* * *

Cosette asked him what he was thinking about. He told her that the barricade still trapped his thoughts at times.

She took his hand in hers, and they sat for a long while just as they'd sat when they had first known love, saying nothing but listening to the other all the same.

He had lost so much. Gained so much. Marius lived. And loved.

But he never forgot.

* * *

**A/N: **

**I hope I did your favorites justice! ****Thank you for taking the time to read this. I'd love to hear your thoughts- go ahead and review!**


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